Fight for Me
by TigerQueen
Summary: Here lies my one and only abandoned fic. Still up for sentimental reasons. Hey, it was my first!
1. Moods

**Author's Preface**

I started _Fight for Me_ last July and have no idea when I'll finish it.  I'll try my best to get out a chapter every week, but I can't make any guarantees, and I might not finish this summer – it just keeps getting bigger!  At the same time, I really want to finish this story.  Just please be patient!

First of all, _Fight for Me is about as AU as a story can be and still be considered fanfiction.  It's mainly a drama/romance piece about Bulma and Vegeta, but it definitely has its share of fight scenes, as the title would suggest, and various other members of the DBZ cast flitter through.  As to the actual plot line; Bulma's an heiress living in Chicago in the Roaring 20s.  Vegeta's a prizefighter – a __very good prizefighter – with a mysterious past.  What happens when their fates become intertwined by a sketchy boyfriend who works in "insurance?"_

**Warnings – no ki, no Super Saiya-jins, and no sex (at least no _detailed sex – nothing against it, just can't write it.  This was an R fic before they banned NC-17 on fanfiction.net).  Lots of swearing and blood: little mercy.  No Japanese.  Very slow updates and very long chapters._**

I'll only say it once – I don't own the characters, but the story is **mine**.  Territorial, ne?

Finally, feel free to email me with any rants or raves at laughingstar14@hotmail.com.  

**Chapter 1 – Moods**

Our curtain opens on a scene of cultured extravagance.  Only the colossal canopy bed off to one side reveals that this room, the size of a small house, is a private bedroom.  Everything sparkles.  The spotless crystal, china, and lace whisper of wealth.  Monet and Degas drape along the walls, occasionally challenged by a Picasso or Klee.

The mistress of this mini-castle is lounging on a blue satin couch, contentedly reading Hemmingway.  She seems completely in her element.  Her ivory silk dress and scarf elegantly complement her pale skin, while her strikingly blue bobbed hair and deep blue eyes perfectly match the undulating tones of the satin.  The hint of a smile plays across her lips.  One wonders what Hemmingway has said to amuse her so, but the slim hand absently playing with the string of pearls around her neck betrays her.  Her thoughts may be with a man, but Hemmingway has lost her.

A prim female voice from across the room breaks her reverie.  "I still say that pearls are for tears."  The young woman speaking seems slightly more robust than the blue-haired heiress, but they are in fact similar in stature.  It is merely her aura of strength and respectability, combined with her starched black and white maid's uniform, which makes her appear less fragile.  Her black hair is wound into a tight bun, with a small white lace cap pinned smartly on top.  While she can't be more than 24, she already has the essence of an elderly schoolteacher.

The blue-haired woman barely moves in response to her maid's harsh comment.  She sighs and looks to a glass chandelier for guidance.  With the air of one who has survived seven plagues, she answers, "Honestly, ChiChi, I can't see why you won't give it up.  It's the 20th century!  1923, not 1823!  Stop being so ancient."

"Humph.  I'm no older than you, Miss Bulma.  I simply believe in using common sense, and common sense tells me that this is a bad sign."

Bulma closes her eyes and shakes her head.  _Not again_.  She turns toward her dark-haired maid.  "Common sense tells you to look for 'signs'?  You're always seeing bad signs.  I met Yamcha on a Friday the 13th.  He owns a black cat.  Our first date was dinner at a restaurant directly under 'The Ladder.'  Have I missed anything?"

"There was a red sky the morning he proposed."

Bulma's face becomes a mixture of confusion, boredom, and fatigue.

" 'Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,' " the young maid explains somewhat impatiently.

Bulma rolls her eyes.  "Of course.  Listen, ChiChi.  I'm beginning to get the feeling that you just don't like Yamcha.  Is there something I should know?"

ChiChi looks down at the cookbook in her lap.  "No, ma'am, it's not my place to judge Master Yamcha."

This only serves to peak Bulma's interest.  "Come on, ChiChi, you know you can always speak your mind with me.  I'm a modern girl!  Just tell…" She is cut off by a knock on the door.  "Come in!"

A stiff butler in a black tuxedo enters.  "A message for Miss Briefs from Mr. [does Yamcha have a last name?]."

Bulma blinks and stands, stretching herself lightly.  "Something from Yamcha?  I guess it's about our date tonight."

The butler quickly crosses the room.  Bulma takes the sealed note lying on the butler's silver tray, and dismisses him with a nod of her head.  Hemmingway still in hand, she opens the letter.

Several long seconds tick by.  ChiChi grows worried as her employer's face turns to stone: cold, harsh, and unyielding.  Suddenly, the fury Bulma has trapped somewhere inside breaks free.  "Oh, for the life of me, I will never understand that man!"

Ignoring the now rapidly retreating butler, Bulma rounds on her maid, unconsciously clenching her fist, crumpling the offensive note.  "Can you believe him, ChiChi?  He's canceled our date!  Just like that, all of my hours of planning and waiting – gone!"  She snaps her fingers for emphasis.  "Just like that!  And he doesn't even offer a decent excuse!  'Emergency meeting – so very sorry.'  What kind of emergency can an insurance company have?  Have all of its customers suddenly taken ill?  Come on!  The nerve of that…that…bastard!"

ChiChi blushes deeply at Bulma's language.  "Please, miss, it isn't becoming of a lady…"

"I'll call him whatever the Hell I want!" Bulma vents suddenly, slamming her book on a nearby table, causing a bone china tea set to tremble precariously.  Thinking of her employer's personal belongings, not to mention her own health, ChiChi tries to calm Bulma down.

"It's all right, Miss Bulma.  You never know with these big corporations.  Your father is busy all of the time, now, isn't he?  And yet your mother is happy.  And Dr. Briefs' work ends with the walls of Capsule Corporation.  The president of an insurance company must have many more obligations than the president of a pharmaceuticals company."  A strange look comes over ChiChi's face as she finishes, "Master Yamcha must have many affairs he can only attend to during personal time."

Bulma's anger has cooled by this point to a strong simmer.  She doesn't miss the implications of her maid's final sentence.

"ChiChi?  What's going on?  What's Yamcha doing?  Is he…is he cheating on me?"

"No, miss, it's nothing."

"There was something you were going to tell me earlier.  What was it?  What has Yamcha gotten himself into?"

ChiChi notices the worry, anger, impatience, and fear that fight for control of Bulma's face.  _Perhaps…_She opens her mouth and takes a deep breath.  Bulma waits for the young maid to speak.

Silence suffocates the room.

Bulma's anger comes back in full force.  "Fine, then, don't tell me anything.  I'll just have to find out from Yamcha himself!"  She spins away, heading for the door.

"Miss Bulma!  Wait!"

Bulma stops and turns back to face her maid.  She says nothing, but her posture and expression are clear.  _Well?  Are you going to keep me waiting here until I get fed up and fire you?_

Staring at an imaginary speck on the Persian rug, ChiChi takes another deep breath, then spits out, "He's gone to the fights."

Whatever Bulma expected, it certainly wasn't this.  "What?"

She's still on shaky ground, so she swallows before answering.  "The fights downtown.  Master Yamcha…sponsors one of the fighters.  He's made a lot of money that way."  Her voice, normally so strong, drops to a mumble.  "At least that's what I've heard."

"The unregulated fights?  But people have gotten killed there!  And it's supposedly a hotspot for the Mafia!"  She pauses for a moment.  "ChiChi?"

"Yes, miss?"

"I have just one question."

ChiChi swallows again and bites her lip.  "Yes, miss."

"Look at me, ChiChi."

Slowly, ChiChi raises her head, only to see Bulma…grinning?

"How do you, my prim, proper, _medieval handmaiden, know all this?"_

ChiChi sighs with obvious relief.  "Well, Miss Bulma, I go down there myself sometimes on my nights off."  Bulma raises her eyebrows, silently commanding ChiChi to continue.  "The fights are actually kind of…" ChiChi trails off, blushing a little, then barely whispers, "…interesting."

Bulma's face suddenly lights up with comprehension.  Her eyes narrow slyly.  "Don't you mean the _fighters_?"

ChiChi's face turns bright red.  "Hmm…more like one fighter, actually," she says, embarrassed and yet giddy, like a teenage girl.  "The one Master Yamcha sponsors.  Goku…" she trailed off, her eyes suddenly glazed.

"Goku?"  Bulma bursts out laughing.  "What kind of a name is Goku?"

"It's not his _real _name," ChiChi shoots back defensively.  "It's the name of some ancient Chinese warrior or something like that!"

"So what _is _his real name?"

ChiChi returns her attention to that speck on the floor.  "I don't know," she mumbles.

Even the polished Miss Bulma Briefs can't remain standing while laughing so hard.  She collapses into a giant armchair, holding her stomach, tears dripping from her eyes.

"You…" she wheezes, "…you, my perfect Little Miss Efficiency…you're in love with a…with a…_prize fighter_…and you don't even know his…his name?"

Fortunately, ChiChi recognizes the irony of the situation.  If her own mouth weren't threatening to smile, she might strike her employer in her anger.  As it is, humor aside, she is still deeply insulted.

"I'll have you know that Goku is the greatest fighter this city has ever known!  He only moved here two years ago, and he's already beaten every fighter within a 50-mile radius!  And let me tell you, there are a lot of fighters in Chicago.  Some are even really good.  But _nobody's _as good as Goku.  He won the tournament last year, and I know he'll do it again this year!  That's why Master Yamcha is putting so much on him!  He knows that Goku will win!"

"Yes…" Bulma mutters.  "Obviously.  Why else would he stand me up for a fight?"

ChiChi's annoyance immediately disappears.  She stares at the young millionaire before her, apparently trying to read Bulma's thoughts.

"ChiChi?"

"Yes, miss?"

"When you told me where Yamcha was going, and I said I had only one question, you acted like I was going to sick Al Capone on you.  What did you think I was going to ask you?"

ChiChi remains silent for a moment, and then answers carefully.  "I really didn't know what you were going to ask me, ma'am."

Bulma studies her maid for a moment, and then nods.  She immediately turns on her heel and glides to the door across the room.  ChiChi stares at her, not sure what to do.  Bulma stops by the door, and then turns back to her maid.  "I think we'll need our light coats.  It's a bit cool outside tonight."

"I beg your pardon, miss?  Are we going somewhere?"

Bulma smiles craftily.  "I'm in the mood for a fight." 


	2. Fight!

**Chapter 2 – Fight!**

Two slight figures push their way into a crowded room.  The smoke-filled speakeasy is packed with those who wish to escape the strain of Prohibition.  Unfortunately for Bulma and ChiChi, it seems that all of these "disreputables" are male.

"Really, Miss Bulma, I don't think that this is a good idea!"

"Stop worrying so much.  After all, you come here all the time, right?"  Bulma dismisses her maid's concerns with a wave of her hand as she shrugs off her coat.

"Miss Bulma!  Please keep your coa-…"

ChiChi's warning comes too late.  The low rumble surrounding the two figures stops completely at the sight of the pale, blue-haired woman, now clad only in an expensive ivory dress and pearls.  The bar suddenly erupts with catcalls and whistles.

"Hey there, darlin'!  Looks like somebody needs a man!"

"Come 'ere, sugar lips!"

"How much, baby?  I don't take long..."

The last comment sends ChiChi over the edge.  "Shut the Hell up, dickhead!"  She turns to her employer, determination oozing from her dark eyes.  "We really should go now, Miss Bulma."

Bulma is so stunned by her maid's language that she complies without a word.  Eyes wide with shock, she turns to leave when she sees a familiar face through the smoke.  Her eyes travel over the short, spiky black hair and the scar shaped like a four-pointed star, finally stopping on a set of ebony eyes.  "Yamcha?"

ChiChi's outburst has only temporarily quieted the crowd now surrounding the two women, and this moment of recognition intensifies the stares and unwelcome comments.  "She's your girl, b-…"  Yamcha silences the offender with a glare.

"All right, scumbags, listen up."

Bulma checks her ears, suddenly worried that she has gone deaf.  Since when does her fiancé have so much influence over people?  She shrugs her shoulders slightly as he continues to speak.

"This here is my fiancée, Miss Bulma Briefs.  For those of you too stupid to understand, that means that she belongs to me." Noise erupts once again for a moment, but dies just as suddenly when Yamcha holds up a hand.

"She's mine, got it?  So _hands off unless you're ready to deal with me."_

Silence hangs in the room like the smoke until the men realize that Yamcha has finished his announcement.  It then hastily evaporates, and the rough-looking men suddenly back away from Bulma as if she were carrying the plague.  The heiress doesn't notice, however.  She is much more interested in her fiancé.  Something is obviously bothering her.  Pinpointing what she has subconsciously noticed only worries her more.  _He looks so…natural._

Despite his high status as the president of a major insurance company, he has always looked a little unkempt.  The slight disorder of his hair and trace of stubble on his chin only heighten his appeal, but here they actually make him fit in.  Yet he is also somehow respected in this lair of anarchy.  With an expensive cigar still smoking in his hand, he almost looks…dangerous.  Bulma shivers slightly before catching herself.  She blinks, and notices that he is looking more than a little angry.  One corner of her mouth sneaks into a tiny smirk.  He ignores it as he moves forward to berate her.

"What the He…ck do you think you're doing here?  Bulma, this is no place for a lady like you!"

"A lady like me?"  Her tone is light and playful, masking her growing anger.  "I don't know what you're talking about, darling!  I am a very modern woman!  And, after all," she adds, a touch of acid darkening her voice, "it can't be so bad a place, if a gentleman like you prefers it to a date with a 'lady' like me!"

He blanches suddenly.  He obviously did not anticipate _this reaction.  He swallows, suddenly meek and humble.  He whimpers in a low voice, "Bulma, honey, I'm really sorry, I just…"_

A beefy man in a dark suit appears to Yamcha's left and whispers into his ear, then leaves.

"We'll talk later, okay, Bulma?  I've gotta go."

"What?" she screeches, causing every head in the bar to spin around.  "Come off it, Yamcha.  You've got some explaining to do, and you're not going anywhere until…"

"Right after the fight, okay, darling?  I've just got to…" he trails off as he darts away.  Bulma stands there, fuming, until she realizes that he will have to come back if he ever wants to leave the bar.  She grins like a Cheshire cat, although her eyes remain spiteful.

ChiChi approaches her quietly.  "Can we leave now, miss?"

"Come now, ChiChi, you aren't going to miss your favorite fighter, are you?  You said that Yamcha's sponsoring that Goku of yours, right?  If Yamcha's worried about a fight, it must mean that Goku's going to be fighting!"

Torn between worry for her employer and desire to see "her" Goku fight, ChiChi gives in to temptation.  "Oh, well.  Just this one fight, mind you!"

Bulma's smirk turns to an honest smile with her next discovery.  "Look, ChiChi, there's another woman here!  Maybe we can get some gossip from her about your favorite fighter!"

ChiChi looks suspiciously at the blond woman across the room.  "I don't know…"

"Oh, come on!"  Bulma hauls her maid around the bar to meet the young woman.

The blonde is obviously a flapper.  Her short hair is pulled back with a long red scarf, and her short red dress is covered with fringe and feathers.  She's taking long drags from a cheap cigarette.  Several empty, lipstick-marked shot glasses have collected by her elbow.

"Excuse me, but my name is Miss Bulma Briefs.  This is my maid, ChiChi."

The flapper stares at Bulma for a moment, and then exhales a cloud of smoke directly into the heiress's face before speaking.  "I heard your little introduction."  Her voice is cold and detached.

Bulma coughs for almost a minute before replying with a voice is as icy as the flapper's.  "I don't believe I caught your name, Miss…"

"Juuhachi." 

"Well, then, Miss Juuhachi, I…"

Another large man interrupts Bulma as he yells above the smoke and conversation.  "The fight will begin in five minutes!"

The sudden rush sweeps Bulma and ChiChi into a large, dimly lit backroom.  Bulma recoils at the smell; the fight room stinks of dried sweat and stale alcohol.  While the men from the bar keep their distance, new faces surround her.  Skeletal women and children have appeared from nowhere, scurrying out of crevices like so many insects.  Some faces are clean and well kept, like ChiChi's, but most are smudged with coal and dirt.  Some are factory workers.  Others work in the many butcher shops; blood still clings to their fingernails.  Yet none of them seem to notice their obvious poverty.  Tonight, they are here to watch their hero.

The crowd quickly parts as the announcer comes through and stops in a marked circle.  "For your entertainment tonight, a fight like nothing you ain't never seen before...A fight to be remembered…"Eyes" Tien versus…Goku!"

Bulma struggles against the cheering crowd to see the fighters.  One is bald, with a tattoo of an eye in the middle of his forehead.  "Creepy," she breathes.  "That tattoo is so lifelike…" She turns to ChiChi, who is screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Go Goku!  Yeah!  You can do it!  Beat him to a pulp!  Go, go, go!"

Bulma follows the maid's eyes to the other fighter.  Goku is actually a sweet-looking young man.  His black hair is spiky and unkempt, but his face is friendly and open.  He closes his eyes as he grins at his fans, dimples giving him the air of a contented child.  He scratches the back of his head, apparently slightly embarrassed by all the attention.  The other fighter, Tien, rolls his eyes.  Bulma blinks; by some trick of the lights, it almost looked like all _three eyes rolled.  She shakes herself as the two men take their positions in the makeshift "ring."_

Both fighters are gigantic.  Not one inch of their bodies lacks muscle.  Giant ridges strain the skin of their shoulders and biceps.  They strip off their shirts, revealing incredibly sculpted chests and backs.  Bulma subtly checks the corners of her mouth for drool.  She has _never seen men like these, not even in artwork.  The scars that pattern their skin fascinate her.  __What would it feel like to touch muscles like those…?  She blushes at the impropriety of her thoughts, pinching herself to focus on her purpose for being here.  Finally, the fight begins._

No one knows who makes the first move.  One moment, the two fighters are simply holding a basic fighting stance, sizing each other up; the next moment, the men are moving so fast that the eye can barely follow.  Both are excellent fighters, but for the first minute or so, neither actually lands a punch.  Suddenly, Tien manages to connect with Goku's ribs.  This is no boxing match; no one wears gloves.  The only protection the fighters have is the cloth wrapped around their knuckles.  Bulma can feel Goku's ribs cracking from the force of the blow.  She shrinks back from the ring in horror, and then looks at ChiChi.  To Bulma's surprise, the young woman only looks faintly exasperated.  Seeing her employer's shock, ChiChi explains, "He always lets his opponent have the first punch.  He says it keeps the fight real."

Bulma furrows her eyebrows in confusion, but turns back to the fight.  Goku almost certainly has a broken rib; a trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth.  His face is locked in concentration.  He suddenly begins fighting harder than before, oblivious to the pain in his side.  His fist connects with Tien's arms again, again, again.  While Tien is holding a very strong defensive position, with his arms crossed in front of him to block the powerful blows to his gut and ribs, the constant barrage is wearing him down.  He is completely unprepared for Goku's change in attack.  No one sees the move that sends Tien flying into the crowd, but they all see the blood and broken teeth.  With a single punch to the head Tien is out cold.

"And the winner is…Goku!"

Bulma tries to shut out the noise of the exuberant crowd as she fights the urge to vomit.  The metallic scent of blood mixes with the stench of the room, reminding her stomach of her single glance of Tien's face.  She has never seen a man look so mangled.  She glares at ChiChi, who is cheering even more loudly for Goku.  The maid, flushed with excitement, dismisses Bulma's concerns.  "Don't worry; they always look like that at the end of a fight with Goku.  He never does any permanent damage.  It isn't nearly as bad as it looks."

While ChiChi's words do little to alleviate Bulma's nausea, the heiress quickly forgets the fallen prizefighter when she sees her fiancé congratulating Goku.  "So, Yamcha, this is your little champion."

With much more confidence than she feels, Bulma swaggers up to the circle.  The crowd falls silent at the vision of blue and cream, so exotic in this makeshift arena.  She ignores it, focused only on Yamcha.

"I have to admit, he's pretty good.  I hear you think he'll win the tournament this year."

All eyes turn to the scarred face.  "Absolutely, my dear."

Bulma closes her eyes and nods thoughtfully.  "Yes, I see.  I wonder, however…does any fighter here think that he can beat your Goku?"

After a pause, over a dozen powerfully built men step forward.

"Yeah, I'll beat 'im!"

"I'll show him, you'll see, baby!"

"Ain't no one can beat me!"

Bulma smirks, and then studies her perfect fingernails.  "You see, I feel like sponsoring a fighter.  But not just any fighter; I want a man who can win, who means to win, who _will win.  Is there such a man here?"_

A dark head appears next to Bulma's.  "Miss Bulma, really, you don't know the first thing about fighters!" she whispers urgently.

"That's all right; I'll have your help, ChiChi!"

ChiChi grits her teeth.  "But, miss, _no one can beat…"_

Yamcha cuts her off.  "Bulma, darling, I don't know what's going through that pretty little head of yours.  There's really no point in…"

"Oh, be a sport, Yamcha!" she says with feigned innocence.  "I just want to have a little fun, you know!"  Her smile stops just short of her eyes.

While Yamcha searches for something to say, Bulma whips around to inspect her volunteers.  They quickly line up for her, and she walks past them slowly, ChiChi whispering advice in her ear.

"He's much too old.

"Too slow.

"Too fat.

 "Way too young.

"Too...toothpicky*.

 "This one's drunk at least 18 hours of every day.  No good.  For crying out loud, he's drunk _now._

...

"Scratch that – he's _unconscious now._

"No.

"No.

"No.

"Decent, but he's too short."

ChiChi continues walking, but Bulma doesn't move.  ChiChi sighs and turns back.

"Really, miss, he'd be at a serious disadvantage fighting someone as tall as Goku.  Besides which, he's new here.  I've never even seen him fight."

Bulma doesn't hear a word.  She stares at the man in front of her.

While he is fairly short for a fighter, barely as tall as Bulma herself, he is every bit as solidly built as Goku and Tien.  His skin is somewhat darker, however, giving him the flavor of a sailor.  _Or a pirate…  His face is sharply defined, with a firm chin, a small, pointed nose, and scowling eyebrows.  His hair shoots straight up from his head like black fire.  But Bulma's focus is locked on his deep black eyes.  His eyes are cold and firm with dedication.  He exhales pride and superiority.  __This man will accomplish whatever he sets out to do._

"So," she says, her voice surprisingly quiet and firm.  "You think you can beat Goku?"

"No."  She stares at him in amazement.  He smirks.

"I _know that I __will beat Goku."_

Her smirk mirrors his own.  "Really.  What's your name?"

"Vegeta.  Who the Hell are you?"

Her face turns red with fury as she shrieks at him.  "How dare you speak in such a way to me?  I'll have you know that I am Bulma Briefs, daughter of Dr. Briefs, president of Capsule Corporation, the largest pharmaceutical company in this country!  As his only child, I am the heiress to more than your feeble mind can possibly imagine!  You _will treat me with more respect, Mr. Vegeta!"_

"Why should the greatest fighter in the country, no, the world, bother showing respect to some pitiful woman!"

ChiChi grabs a nearby bottle and shakes it menacingly at the man insulting her employer.  "You little bastard!  Why, I'll wipe that smirk right off your…Let me go, Miss Bulma!  That rat needs to learn a thing or two about showing proper respect for a lady!"

"Now, now, ChiChi," Bulma says, shaking her head, her voice dangerously low.  "You forget that we're dealing with the strongest fighter on the planet.  Perhaps he wishes to show a little of his strength in a friendly match."

Vegeta throws back his head with a scornful laugh.  "I could easily defeat anyone in this room.  I seriously doubt that any of the _boys here could challenge me enough to show my true strength."_

"We'll see about that, midget," one of Bulma's other "contestants" says, signaling to two of his friends.  "How 'bout you try and beat us!"

"If you have a death wish...far be it from me to deny what I so love to bestow."

ChiChi tugs Bulma's arm.  "Miss Bulma…I know he deserves to be cut down a peg or two, but three against one…this is the kind of fight where someone gets killed!"

Bulma merely shrugs.  "If I can't take his word that he's stronger than those three, how can I believe that he's stronger than Goku?"

The announcer slides up to Bulma.  "Of course, ma'am, yah know that th' match needs uh sponsur."

She fishes around in a small purse, then hands him a $10 bill.  His eyes bulge slightly, as he starts to pocket the money.  ChiChi grabs his hand.  "Not so fast, buster!"  She returns the money to Bulma.  "It's only three dollars."  The announcer grumbles as he takes what Bulma offers him, then raises his voice.  "Anybuhdy goin' tah place uh bet?"

"Two bucks says he goes down in the first thirty seconds!"

"Thirty?  More like ten!"

"You're on!  He's a tough little dick.  I say he'll last a solid minute before he hits the floor!"

Vegeta ignores the babble and walks into the ring.  He doesn't bother with a fighting stance.  His tattered black shirt still clings to his round shoulders.  He simply stands, leaning slightly on one leg, arms folded over his chest.  He smirks as the three brawny men encircle him, then charge.

Everyone gasps as the first man gets knocked out of the ring with a careless backhand.  His body flies several feet, knocking down half a dozen spectators.  The second man soon joins him, clutching his gut.  Only five seconds into the fight, Vegeta has whittled the opposition from three down to one.  He turns to the remaining man, the idiot who dared to challenge him.

"And now you'll see what happens to children who mess with me."

Vegeta distracts his opponent with a left hook, only to bring his knee into the frightened man's kidney.  Ignoring the scream of pain, he then begins pummeling his opponent in the face.  The crowd can do nothing but look on in horror when he finally discards the broken body.  The unconscious man is barely alive.

Bulma tears her eyes from what used to be a face.  Tien's injuries were nothing compared to this.  Somehow, though, she holds down the bile in her throat as she turns to Vegeta.  "Well, it would seem that you have proven your point.  I have decided to become your sponsor."

"I don't need any weak woman's help.  Honestly, even a little fight like that makes you sick!  Pathetic."

She swallows, trying to control her anger.  He takes it as proof of her nausea and smirks.  A slight hiss escapes her clenched teeth.

"Believe it or not, you need me.  You need to be strong to win.  You need food and shelter to be strong.  You need money for food and shelter.  And for money, you need me."

"Please, woman, spare us your chatter.  I'll earn money by fighting!  Your participation is a waste of my time."

"Do you really think you can make it without a sponsor?  After that little show, I doubt that anyone else will sponsor a fight with you – they want a_ fighter, not a__ public menace.  No sponsor: no fight: no money."_

Before Vegeta can speak, the announcer appears at Bulma's elbow.  "Speakin' of dough, miss, here's your take."

Bulma looks a little confused as she takes the money he offers her.  She looks down at the fifteen dollars in her hand, then shrugs and counts out three.  She holds the remaining twelve out to Vegeta.

"What are you doing, woman?  I thought I made it clear that I didn't want your money!"

"It isn't _my money.  You earned it," she says simply, placing the money in his hands._

"What are you doing?" Yamcha says angrily, stepping forward for the first time since Bulma's challenge.  "You can't just give him all that money!  Fighters only get a small percentage of the earnings!  He won't know what to do with it!  He'll probably just drink it up."

"Not if he wants to defeat Goku."

The subject of their argument never moves.  He stands there, money in hand, staring at Bulma with an incomprehensible look on his face.  She turns to him, and their eyes meet.  They silently reach some agreement, and Vegeta nods, putting the money in a pocket inside his shirt.

Bulma has what she came for.  Without another word for Yamcha, she grabs ChiChi by the arm and leads her out of the bar.

Two pairs of black eyes follow the women's exit.  Yamcha suddenly turns and catches the proud fighter watching his fiancée.  His demeanor changes as what has remained of Yamcha's playfulness disappears.  He blocks Vegeta's gaze with his body.  "You just remember who she belongs to, Vegeta," he says in a low voice, almost a growl.  He spits out the fighter's name like an obscenity.

Vegeta stands his ground, his eyes unreadable.  "I don't think I saw a license on that collar around her neck.  Are you sure you own the bitch?"

"What the _fuck did you just call my girl?"_

"Are you challenging me, weakling?  I could beat you into oblivion with my left hand!"

The crowd goes completely still.  The silence is broken only when Yamcha starts laughing: a cold, cruel sound.  "You know, you really shouldn't talk that way to me.  People who defy me have a way of…disappearing.  Now, I wouldn't want anything to happen to Bulma's little toy, but…"

At the last comment, Vegeta's hands form into fists, but Yamcha has already vanished into the crowd.  His eyes narrow and he quickly leaves the bar.

*****

"I'm afraid that boy is determined to be a nuisance."

"We'll handle it, boss."

"Thank you, gentlemen."  He laughs.  "No one defies The Wolf, Vegeta.  _No one."_

*toothpicky – a word copyrighted to TigerQueen.  It means skinny, angular, and fragile (perhaps like TQ herself), not critical, as some of her friends first thought.


	3. Tension

**Chapter 3 – Tension**

Chicago is by nature a cold city.  Located on the shores of Lake Michigan in northern Illinois, it knows the bitter cold that soaks deep into your socks, even in May.  Snow stays on the ground from November until March, brown from the salt that sprays up from the roads.  This late in spring, however, the snow has long been washed away.  Instead, a thick, oily rain pours from the skies, mixing with the spill on the roads in a vain attempt to clean the dark city.

A solitary figure walks briskly along the side of the road, oblivious to the heavy rain that threatens to cow his spiky black hair.  Vegeta pauses mid-stride for a brief moment while squinting at a battered road sign at an intersection, and then turns to his right.

Twenty seconds pass by.  Another ten.  Then, more silently than the rain, a man drops from his hiding place on a deep window ledge.  Two others shift from the shadows of doorways.  The first abruptly nods his head to the intersection, then to the right. 

Vegeta has finally reached his destination: the Hôtel Paris.  Despite its posh name, the "Hôtel" is really barely more than a broken-down whorehouse.  With an expression of tired disgust, he opens the front double doors, nearly taking them off their hinges in the process.

The three men smile at the ease with which they have cornered their quarry.  The idiot didn't even notice he'd been followed!  They go ahead with their normal routine.  The man from the window ledge primes the explosive hidden in a shabby suitcase, while the others take their positions on either side of the entrance.  The main hit man will go into the lobby of the hotel, taking his suitcase with him.  Discovering that he has "forgotten" his keys, he will exit the building, leaving the bomb in the lobby.  All local desk attendants have been "advised" to let a short man with spiky black hair cool his heels in their front lobbies.  The victim should die before he hears the sound of the explosion.  What happens to the building will be counted as collateral damage.

The two gunmen wait as their colleague enters the hotel.  Their role here is really redundant.  They always work as a team of three, as some of their victims are aging mobsters who still have a few cards to play.  This one, however, shouldn't even put up a fight.  They've "popped" their share of prizefighters.

After the first thirty seconds pass without a sign of their partner, the gunmen begin to get antsy.  The bomb should go off in another twenty or thirty seconds!  They should have left by now!  For the first time since receiving the assignment, one of them breaks the silence.

"Think we should go after him?"

"Never have before.  I dunno."

"Something's wrong.  I'll go check.  Stay here."

He enters slowly and cautiously.  He recognizes his partner sitting in a chair, bag at his feet, facing a frozen clerk.

"Hey, buddy, I, uh…need help with…"

He trails off as he moves around to face his colleague.  His eyes widen when he sees the blood dripping from a small hole in the center of the man's forehead.

"Who…"

"I did," replies a cold voice from the shadows, right before a silent insect drills through the gunman's heart.

Vegeta steps forward to admire his work, then checks the bomb in the bag.  Five seconds left.

"Fuck."  He knows that there's still one gunman outside, but he'll have to risk it.  Remembering that the first man entered from the right door, he assumes that the second will be to the left of the entrance.  At least fate smiles on him that much.

Protecting his vital spots with his left arm, he pushes out the right door, firing blindly to his left.  Ignoring the sting in his arm, Vegeta smirks as he hears his enemy gasp, but continues running.  _Three, two…  He dives for cover behind a parked car.  __One…_

The explosion rocks the street, taking out two side buildings as well as the hotel.  The car protecting Vegeta shakes, but he pays it no mind.  _Perfect…no evidence.  He looks down at his arm, however, and sighs.  __Shit…_

*****

"I _hate rain," ChiChi says, picking up a towel.  The women were home when the rain began.  While their coats have protected their clothes, their hair has gotten fairly wet._

Bulma sighs and stretches her bare toes as ChiChi attacks her thick blue hair.  "You hate any and all forms of weather that involve looking less than perfect.  Rain and wind mess up your hair and clothes, sun makes you sweat…"

"Snow is just plain hideous…"

"No, it isn't, ChiChi!  You've just never seen snow outside Chicago.  Most places, it snows and melts, then snows and melts again, over and over.  It's so pretty when it's fresh and white, not two months old and muddy."

ChiChi rolls her eyes and smiles down on the young woman who, despite being two years her senior, often acts like a daughter.  "Miss Bulma, you are and forever will be a hopeless romantic."

Bulma scowls.  "I'm not a romantic, I'm…"

"A modern woman," ChiChi finishes, then adds, "but, fortunately, not as modern as that girl Juuhachi."

"You do realize that not all flappers are chain-smoking alcoholics.  Nor do they necessarily have attitudes."

"They're all trash," ChiChi declares, squeezing her mouth into a tiny frown of disapproval.  "Especially that one," she continues as she helps Bulma out of her dress and into a long blue robe.  "Completely disgusting, she was.  And what an attitude!  Almost as bad as that demon you've decided to sponsor."

"Come on, ChiChi," she yawns.  "He's not _that bad.  And it's not like we really have to bother with him.  I put up a little money, he fights, he wins, he fights Goku, he wins – don't say anything just yet, ChiChi – he wins, I make a total fool of Yamcha, end of story."_

ChiChi sighs and throws her hands in the air, releasing the invisible burden of guilt.  "As you wish, Miss Bulma, but I still say that Goku will win."

With this prophecy, ChiChi leaves to draw Bulma's bathwater in a massive bathroom found behind one of the doors in the bedroom.  While her maid fusses with the rose and lily essences, Bulma pulls out her sketchpad and charcoal.  There, beside drawings of the various sculptures she has studied, she traces out the basis of a body, fluidly adding muscle and torn clothes.  She pays special attention to his face, especially his eyes.  She breaks the charcoal twice trying to mimic the darkness of those eyes.  Suddenly, she growls.  "Something's wrong!  But what?  I have a good eye for this; I should be able to draw him from memory!"  She closes her eyes, trying to picture him, but finds that she can't keep him still.  Somehow, despite his static pose when she talked to him, her memory sees only a blur of motion.  She sighs and crosses out the image with a sweep of charcoal.  No matter; her bath is ready.

While her employer bathes, ChiChi tidies the room and turns down the lights.  She notices the sketchbook on a desk and flips through it, taking the opportunity to admire Bulma's artwork.  _She has such talent, and she's so bright!  Not every maid serves a woman who has graduated from college.  She will make a wonderful wife and mother.  A worry line appears as Charlotte thinks of Yamcha.  She shoves the thought aside as she looks at the last filled page.  She squints at the hastily obliterated figure.  While most of the drawing has been destroyed, there's something about the figure's posture…_

ChiChi nearly drops the sketchbook when she realizes just whom Bulma has drawn.  "Why?" she whispers, her voice raw with fear.  "Oh, Miss Bulma, what are you getting all of us into?"

"I'm sorry, ChiChi, did you say something?"  Having finished her bath, Bulma slides into a long white nightgown with wide sleeves.

"Nothing, miss, I was just wondering who sculpted this one?  And why is it scribbled out?"

Bulma blanches for a second before saying, "Oh, that's some new artist.  I didn't care much for the statue, so I decided to quit."

Before ChiChi can reply, Bulma escapes to a window.  She draws back the lace curtain and stares at the scene below.  She loves rain.  There is something both beautiful and dangerous about a dark gray storm.

ChiChi freezes while turning down the bed when she hears Bulma say in a strange tone of voice, "ChiChi, be a dear and tell me if you see what I see."

ChiChi peaks out a nearby window.  "Isn't that…"

"Yes, I think it is.  Doesn't it seem like he's hurt?"

"Yes, miss, he's holding his left arm funny."

Bulma watches for a moment, then suddenly says, "Well, are you going to help him or not?"

"Me?  Help him, miss?"

"Of course you, silly!  You don't expect me to run out there in the rain in this, do you?" she asks, gesturing at her nightgown.

"No, miss, but…"

"Go on!  Hurry up, girl!"

"But what shall I do with him?"

"Bring him up here, of course!"

"And what if he shan't come?"

"I don't know, carry him or something!  He's obviously badly hurt!"

ChiChi finally gives in and leaves, mumbling something about money begetting insanity.

Bulma watches from the window as her maid approaches the injured man.  She must have said something to him, for he is obviously arguing with her and trying to push past her without hurting his arm.  Bulma can almost hear him shout, "Out of my way, stupid girl!" or something similar.  Now ChiChi's getting angry, too; Bulma can tell by the way she's flinging her hands around while she talks.  He's yelling again.  This time, something hits home.  ChiChi turns around in disgust, and looks at Bulma through the window as if to say, "I told you so."

Vegeta follows ChiChi's eyes to Bulma's window.

Once again, the fighter and the heiress have some silent staring contest.

Once again, Bulma wins, although she isn't quite sure how.

As ChiChi returns to the door of the Briefs' mansion, she's surprised to find Vegeta following her.  She sniffs audibly, but doesn't say anything.

She relaxes slightly when she sees that Bulma has put on her robe.  The now perfectly decent millionaire smiles her thanks to her maid, then turns to "her" fighter.

"What on Earth have you done to yourself!"

"I really don't see how it's any of _your concern, woman!"_

"It's my concern because you won't beat Goku with a broken arm!  Now let me see it."

He rolls his eyes, but unbuttons his shirt.  "What kind of an idiot are you, woman?  My arm isn't broken!  I've been shot!"

She gasps as he peels the fabric away from the hole in his arm.  The blood is sticky, having congealed for almost an hour, but it's still warm, like his skin.  She touches it uncertainly.

"ChiChi, I'm going to need some warm washcloths."

"Fine, miss.  Just as long as _I don't have to touch him," she adds under her breath._

Bulma ignores the young woman as she inspects Vegeta's wound.  Fortunately, the smell of his blood is overwhelmed by the smell of his skin, which she absently observes to be rather pleasant.  Hopefully free from her curse of nausea, she stares at the ugly hole.

"I really think you need a doctor."

He tries to stand.  "I refuse!  I don't need any damned doctor!"

_Then what are you doing here?  "Well, all I can do is clean it.  It's a pretty bad wound, and I don't have any experience with this sort of thing…"_

"Fine," he says, sitting back down.

Bulma is confused beyond belief by his sudden compliance, but ChiChi arrives with the washcloths, and Bulma accepts her task.  Ash she stands there, leaning over him, the irony of the situation strikes her.  Here she is, a beautiful heiress, playing the servant for a common ruffian!  _And yet…  She struggles to hide a smile.  Somehow this incredible fighter reminds her of a young child in need of a mother to kiss his "booboo."  She tries, and fails, to imagine him as a child._

"Damn it, woman, I think it's clean enough!"

She looks down at the bloody piece of cloth in her hands.  _How long have I been rubbing the wound?  "Well, if you were in pain, you could have said something sooner, genius!"_

He snorts.  "As if the slight pressure you were exerting could possible hurt a man of my strength.  You were merely annoying me."

"Liar," she mutters, squinting at the wound.  "Well, it's clean for now, but it won't stay that way with the amount you're bleeding."  She suddenly notices the smell of his skin again.

"Just give me something to wrap around it.  Honestly, woman, you're even more stupid than you look."  Strangely enough, he smells clean.

"Hmm…ChiChi, bring me some long bandages."  Yamcha always smells like expensive cologne.  The other men at the bar smelled like stale sweat, alcohol, and (occasionally) vomit.  But this man just smells _clean._

"Will this do, miss?"

"Yes, thank you."  His discarded shirt reeks of smoke, as did her dress after her short stay in the bar, but _he doesn't.  His teeth are clean and white.  "You don't smoke, do you," she says absently._

"No."

"That's odd."

"Why the Hell should it be?"

"Well, most of the other guys at that bar smoked."

He doesn't reply.  He doesn't need to.  The words hum in the air as loudly as if he had said them.  _I'm nothing like those bastards.  Instead of speaking, he grabs the bandage from Bulma's fingers and attempts to wrap it around his left arm.  Of course, he only has use of one arm, and tying a tight tourniquet proves to be impossible.  "Who's being the idiot now, hmm?" Bulma murmurs as she takes the bandage from his hand and wraps it around his arm.  She doesn't know how to tie a real tourniquet, but she understands the principle and does a decent job.  Besides, it gives her another opportunity to study the texture of his skin, the shape of his muscles, and the way he moves.  Her fingers subconsciously twitch as she imagines drawing him, her earlier failure still on her mind._

What she doesn't see is that he is studying her just as intensely.  Her short blue hair bounces gently as she moves, following the rise and fall of her head.  Her skin is pale to the point of luminescence, like that of most women of "culture," but he has never seen one of those snobby biddies act with such subtlety.  Although she is obviously one of the wealthiest women in the country, she treats him with a bizarre sort of respect.  She yells at him, as though aware that he hates false formality above all things, but she doesn't treat him like dirt.  Her words are harsh while her hands are gentle.  In all honesty, she didn't hurt him while "cleaning" his wound.  Something about the softness of her fingers, combined with the light yet exotic floral scent of her hair, made him nervous.  He'd finally made her stop, but here she is again.  _Damn.  He's decidedly uncomfortable.  __Shit, shit, **shit.  I think I like her better when she's mad.**_

"Hurry it up, bitch."

_That works even better than he expected.  Her fingers don't stop, but her touch loses its softness._

"You, you…low class, ignorant, insolent, unappreciative bastard!  After all I'm doing for you!"  She fights the urge to slap him as she finishes tying the bandage.

"Hah!  What exactly are you doing for me, woman?  As you yourself said, you're only making sure that I make that idiot look even more like a fool than he does naturally!"

She finishes the knot, then looks him in the eyes.  Yamcha would be kissing her feet, were he on the receiving end of her glare, but Vegeta simply stares back.  She smiles dangerously.

"You're absolutely right."  She punctuates her statement with a loud slap across his right cheek.

"I hope you don't think that hurt me," he says, unchanged except for the white handprint quickly turning red on his face.

"Of course not.  After all, I don't want any harm to come to my investment, do I?"  Her sudden rage is gone, but she still feels her heart pounding.  _God, how I'm beginning to hate this man!_

He feels a certain tension pass.  He can deal with this submerged anger.  All the same, he feels that it would be wise to leave.  Without saying a word, he stands and heads for the door.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"To find another hotel.  Get out of my way."

Another hotel?  "Wait a minute.  You never did explain how you were shot in the first place."

"You never asked."

She nearly screams.  Instead, she grits her teeth.  "Well…?"

"I make enemies quickly."  This is the most she will ever get out of him.  His life outside of the fighting ring is none of her business.

She follows him to the door of her room.  He ignores her as he opens the door, but stops when he feels her hand on his left arm, just inches below his wound.

"ChiChi!" she calls down the corridor in the direction of the kitchens.  She didn't hear her maid escape while she was "helping" Vegeta, but there aren't many places where the young woman could be.  As predicted, a dark head pops out from behind a kitchen door.  "Yes, Miss Bulma?"

"Vegeta will be staying here from now on."  She ignores the shocked stares of her maid and fighter as she continues, "I think the Louis XV room will suit him."

"Forget it, woman.  There is absolutely no way in Hell that I'm going to live with you."

"Well, Vegeta, given that you 'make enemies quickly,' I think it would be best if your living arrangements kept you away from any factors that might impede your fighting."

She waits for a full minute while he thinks.  He finally concedes for the third (and, of course, _final) time.  "Very well.  Show me my room, girl," he says, turning to ChiChi.  ChiChi stares at Bulma, waiting for some reaction, but the millionaire merely turns with a perfunctory "goodnight" and closes the door to her bedroom behind her._

Bulma grins, hearing ChiChi's grumbling even through the door.  Her smile fades as she realizes that she will now have to live with a man whose personality is really starting to make her skin crawl.  She shrugs, however, telling herself that at least she will have another chance to draw him.  She glances at her sketchpad, but suddenly feels too tired to work.  She crawls into bed, falling asleep while murmuring a single question to the roof of her canopy bed, unwittingly echoing her maid.

"What have I gotten myself into?"


	4. Agreement

**Chapter 4 – Agreement**

An amber glow gently brightens Bulma's silent room.  Long shadows from lace curtains pattern the wooden floors and oriental rugs.  Curled up in a giant white armchair, Bulma watches the sun weave its way through the skyscrapers from an open window.  She has had to tie back the curtains with hair ribbons, as the view from her windows is less than spectacular, and the curtains aren't meant to be drawn.  This morning, however, she ignores the haze and hurry of the city, instead focusing on the small amount of sky she can see.

She doesn't move a muscle when her maid enters with an armful of clean clothes.  ChiChi can't see Bulma, who is hidden behind the armchair.  She begins dusting the antique china, moving quietly, thinking that her employer is still asleep behind the curtains of the large bed.  Even as she begins cleaning the windows, she doesn't notice the woman sitting in the armchair.  Bulma's white nightgown blends with the upholstery, both now black and orange with shadow and sunlight.  Bulma ignores her maid, lost in thought.  She continues to hold perfectly still.  It is only when a trace of blue catches ChiChi's eye that the maid jumps.

"Miss Bulma!  I'm terribly sorry, miss, I had no idea that you were awake!"

Bulma doesn't acknowledge the dark-haired woman.  ChiChi fidgets.  "Would you like your breakfast now?"

"Yes, thank you."  ChiChi is somewhat confused by the heiress' absent expression, but she shrugs it off as she heads of for the kitchen.

When she returns several minutes later, she is surprised to see that Bulma still hasn't moved.  Her blue eyes focused on the sky, she doesn't seem to notice her maid's return.

ChiChi coughs lightly.

"I know you're there, ChiChi," she says, never moving her eyes.

"Sorry, miss."  ChiChi's ears turn a shade pinker.  Bulma smiles, still not turning, but able to imagine her maid's embarrassment.

After a moment's pause, Bulma gets up and moves to a small table, where ChiChi lays out a delicate breakfast.  Halfway through a grapefruit, Bulma looks at her maid questioningly.  "Well?  Is something bothering you, ChiChi?"

"Bothering…?  Oh, nothing, I suppose I'm still a little shaken by that fighter.  Do you have any idea how much he eats?  And how early?  At four o'clock this morning he woke our head chef and demanded enough breakfast to feed Caesar's legions!  Who does he think he is, the head of the household?"

Bulma sips her coffee, and then stares at the swirling foam.  "Where is Vegeta now?"

"Training in the weight room, I think.  I can't be sure.  Other servants have said he's something of a wanderer.  You never know where he'll turn up.  One of them ran into him in the library at one in the morning!  He must have taken a wrong turn or something, but when the valet offered to help him back to his room, Vegeta nearly ripped his head off!  Poor boy was absolutely terrified!  He's a horrible man."

"I suppose I have to agree with you there."

"You _suppose?  My goodness, miss, he's the devil incarnate!  The anti-Christ himself!  A spawn of Satan sent here to destroy us all!"_

Bulma says nothing, turning her attention to a small roll.  ChiChi sighs, and then attacks the already sparkling windows.

"There's something else, though, isn't there?  This isn't just about Vegeta's breakfast."

ChiChi stops mid-scrub.  She remains still for a moment, and then answers with a question.  "Why are you up so early?  You usually sleep for another two hours."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"I was thinking."

"What about?  Please, God, don't let it be _him."_

"Who, 'him'?  Yamcha or Mr. 666?  Or perhaps Goku?"

At this, ChiChi's head snaps up, a panicked look across her face.  "What?"

Bulma smiles deviously.  "Or perhaps…all three?  Getting back at Yamcha _is my new favorite pastime."_

ChiChi's face turns a frightening shade of white as she whispers, "You aren't thinking of refusing Mr. Yamcha, are you?"

"Nonsense," Bulma replies, missing her maid's fear as she paws through a newspaper.  "We'll be married in August, just as planned.  I just want to prove to him that I will _not be pushed aside."_

ChiChi manages a small smile as she clears the breakfast.  _Well, I suppose she'll be all right._

Bulma mentally apologizes to the retreating figure of her maid.  _I'm sorry, ChiChi, but I know you wouldn't understand.  I'm really not attracted to him, just…intrigued.  I want to know who he is, what__ he is...I just can't make it out.  Just give me a little time. _

*****

About three hours later, Bulma fiddles with the cover of her book.  "Suppose it's time for some new reading material," she mumbles to the empty room.  She sighs as she opens her door and strolls down the hallway.

She enters a room that makes even her enormous bedroom look small.  All four walls of the gigantic two-story library are covered with books, and well-filled shelves and bookcases litter the floor.  The second floor is really just a catwalk that gives access to the books on the highest shelves.  Bulma inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of leather, paper, and ink.  She leaves her book on a tray as she sets out to find something new.

She wanders through the stacks, picking up random books, flipping through them, putting them back, and starting over.  She tries to suppress a yawn as she reads the first few sentences of _Beowulf, then looks up.  The book slips from her fingers.  She stops yawning, but her mouth refuses to close completely._

He's lounging in a chair perhaps ten feet from her, apparently lost in the book he holds in his left hand.  His starched white shirt and crisp black pants contrast with the wild, gravity-defining hair, but he somehow seems regal.  Everything about him is stately and strong, even that hair.  Just as Yamcha looked strangely at home in the crowded bar, Vegeta looks as if he _belongs in this kind of splendor.  He turns to meet her gaze, and Bulma suddenly feels like a bird caught by the eyes of a snake.  She blinks, and the world comes back into focus._

"What on earth are you doing here?  I thought you were training!"

"Obviously, you were mistaken."

Silence.

She attempts to maintain a civil tone.  "You still haven't answered my question.  What are you doing here?"

He raises his eyebrows, and then holds up his book.  _He's reading Homer's Odyssey__?  She tries to hide her surprise.  "But…shouldn't you be training?  To defeat Goku?  Contest, yes, you remember this?"  She looks at him somewhat askance._

"Of _course I remember, idiot.  Unlike you, I'm not mentally challenged.  And I would be training at this very minute if your facilities were what I have demanded."_

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Has that pathetic excuse for a servant not told you?  Your little 'gym' is hopelessly outdated.  It will require full remodeling.  The weight machines are ancient and only go up to 200 pounds of resistance.  The…"

She quickly interrupts.  "You'll just have to get used to it.  I'm not going to turn my house inside out for you!"

"You _will have the modifications done, and they will be completed within a fortnight."_

_The nerve of him!  Just who does he think he is?  She finally releases her pent-up anger.  "That does it!  How dare you speak to me this way, ordering me around as if I were your slave!  I absolutely refuse to let myself be bullied by a…a…"  She pauses, face flushed.  She breathes heavily, searching for a word to adequately describe the man in front of her._

Vegeta watches the furious woman as she struggles.  For a moment, he thought he knew what she was going to say: _common street cur!  Yet she didn't say it.  There are a million demeaning names she could call him, but she doesn't insult his position.  She __won't.  Not that this really helps him.  She's still angry, and acting like she honestly won't follow his orders.  __Very well, then.  I will teach her to obey me._

He suddenly grabs her wrists, twisting them just enough for her to be uncomfortable, if not truly in pain.  She jerks out of her tirade, her shock painted in white across her face.  No man has ever handled her roughly in her life, and she doesn't have the first idea what to say or do.

Strangely enough, Vegeta finds himself in equal discomfort.  Holding her has brought her body close to him, and the heat of her anger has released more of that floral scent.  He can feel her pulse pounding through her wrists.  He feels his muscles beginning to tense, ready to pull her even closer, and he instantly relaxes them to the point where he's barely touching her.  He refocuses on Bulma's eyes, hoping that she hasn't seen anything odd in his behavior.  Well…anything besides the obvious.

She finally finds her tongue.  "What the…"

"I realize that you aren't used to following orders.  That's too damn bad."  His voice is deceptively calm and quiet.  She has to strain to hear the words.  "From this moment on, you will do what I say, when I say, no questions asked.  Do you understand, or does your weak mind require further explanation?"

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, shuts her eyes for a moment, then looks up at him.  "I understand," she whispers.

"Good."  He releases her hands, only to have one fly into his face.  This time, she strikes hard, the edge of her hand clipping him across the cheekbone.  His eyes widen.  _That actually **hurt!**_

"I understand, Vegeta.  I understand _perfectly."  Her voice threatens to eat through his eardrums.  "ChiChi was right, you __are a demon.  You can't be human.  You're a guest in my house, I ask nothing of you except that you achieve what was already your goal, and what do you do?  You insult my intelligence and treat me like a lesser life form!  You have not humility, nor shame, nor compassion, nor honor!"_

"And why should I?  What does humility get you?  Shame?  Compassion?  _Honor?  These things mean nothing in this fucked up world!  All you can do is fight!  All __I can do is fight.  I will win.  I __must win."  His voice lowers, and he turns away._

_I wonder when he'll stop surprising me.  Bulma tries to reclaim her anger, but it has escaped her.  Instead, her curiosity takes over.  __Just who the heck is this guy?_

He stands, his back to the heiress, staring at nothing.  Her words throb in his brain.  "_You have not humility, nor shame, nor compassion, nor honor!"  But what do I care?  It means nothing to me!  He tries to ignore her presence.  He knows now that she will never give in to his demands, even if she doesn't see him as street trash.  Her will is too strong for her to cower before idle threats and psychological warfare.  Breaking her would require extensive force, and that, for once, does not appeal to him.  __Besides, he reasons, __that would attract too much attention.  Her voice interrupts his reverie._

"Very well, Vegeta.  I will have the weight room redone to your specifications."

He turns to her in shock.  _Is she giving in?_

Obviously not.

"I will do this on the condition that you start training the minute the renovations are complete.  Do we have an agreement?"  She offers one slim white hand.  He stares down at it.  "What do you want, woman?" he says gruffly.  "I thought you said I have no honor?"

She doesn't answer.  Instead, she grasps his right hand, observing for a moment his short, clean nails and sculpted fingers.  _Maybe if I start by just drawing his hands…Stop, Bulma!  Focus!  She gives his hand a brief squeeze which, amazingly enough, he returns.  Before she has a chance to internalize what he has done, she's alone.  She blinks once or twice, then looks around the room.  He's gone.  She didn't even hear the door shut behind him.  She sighs, then resumes her task of looking for a book._

_Wait a minute…he was reading Homer?_

She doesn't have a chance to think further on this subject, as a knock on the door interrupts her thoughts.  "Yes?"

ChiChi enters.  "Miss Bulma, Master Yamcha is here to see you."

"That's odd.  He doesn't usually drop by unannounced."  She giggles.  "Maybe he's still annoyed about the whole fight thing."

"Please, miss, don't say anything to aggravate him."

"Come on, ChiChi, Yamcha adores me.  Well, I'd better not keep him waiting!"  She hurries out the door.

Downstairs, Yamcha waits for his fiancée, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  He's wearing his best suit, but he has loosened his tie in anxiety.  He hears footsteps, and quickly fixes his tie.  "Bulma?"

He stares in shock when a familiar silhouette fills the doorway: small in stature, but extremely well-built, with hair that stands nearly on end.  Either he is seeing a ghost, or someone has failed him.  He grits his teeth.  _Someone's going to pay for this._


	5. Storms Rising

**Chapter 5 - Storms Rising**

For a moment, Yamcha doesn't say anything: his mind is too busy reeling from the fact that a man who should be buried under the rubble of a cheap motel is standing in the foyer of his fiancée's house.  Vegeta, on the other hand, knows exactly what's going on, and isn't the least bit shocked to see the man he has unconsciously marked a major adversary.

"Well, well, if it isn't "The Wolf."  Tell me; are you finally ready to test your strength against me?  You were so confident last night, but I wonder if you still have that chutzpah here, where your lackeys can't help you."

"What the fuck are you doing here, shrimp?" Yamcha hisses, buying a little time.  _Come on, Bulma, where are you?  Shit, if you don't show up soon, I'll have to kill this bastard.  How the Hell will I explain that?_

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"_I have a right to be here.  Bulma's __my __girl, so this is practically __my house.  __You, on the other hand, are just scum that crawled out of some sewer."_

"Actually, your lovely property requested that I stay here.  I may be a little off on this, given that I am just 'walking refuse,' but I thought that a gentleman had an obligation to honor the wishes of the mistress of a house.  Do things run differently where you're from?"

Yamcha's world turns red.  _How **dare this little mother-fucker act all high and mighty with me?  You'd think that ****I was the street shit and ****he was the fucking gentleman!  "Shut the fuck up!"**_

Vegeta smirks.  _This is even easier than I would have thought!  I can't believe I let the bastard get to me before.  He's really just a coward…no wonder he cringes before the woman.  An idiot, too...  He rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, still keeping up the Oxford-man front.  "I do believe we still have some business to attend to.  I think that I may have insulted 'your' woman's honor in our last meeting.  I'm certain that you will want to settle this issue with me in a…gentlemanly way.  Shall we dance?" he asks, mock-bowing to his opponent._

Of course, Yamcha knows that he can't win a hand-to-hand fight, but he does have a few little tricks.  He's suddenly glad that he automatically strapped his favorite knife up his sleeve this morning.  He smiles when he thinks of the fighter's face after a death blow…

"Hello, Yamcha!  I didn't expect you to come…today…"  Bulma trails off, taking in the scene.  _Well, **this is interesting…**_

"Bulma, what the…I don't…why is…what are you…**_him?" Yamcha stutters, face purple, flailing at Vegeta._**

"Well, Yamcha, I'm not sure that's any of your business."  She grins.  _Wow, I didn't expect this, but it's a nice perk._

He can't speak.  He opens his mouth, but only a hissing sound comes out.  He gasps for air, then explodes.  "What the _Hell is he doing here!  And don't give me that 'not your business' shit, either."  She stares at him; he's never sworn in her presence before.  "You're __my fiancée, and I have a right to know what that __asshole is doing in your house!"  He starts walking towards her.  For the first time in her life, she feels a little afraid of the usually timid man.  Then something odd happens._

For whatever reason, Bulma turns slightly, looking at Vegeta.  He's watching her – judging her.  She suddenly realizes that, should she back down now, Vegeta will always hold it against her.  If she gives in, if she lets Yamcha win, she will never be able to hold her own with Vegeta again.  She can't let that happen.  She won't let Vegeta dominate her.  She takes a deep breath, trying to inhale courage.

"Honestly, Yamcha, one might almost think you were jealous!"  She laughs, herself surprised that she sounds lighthearted, not nervous.  "You see, I've run into a bit of a snag.  My dear fighter here seems to be…how did he put it…good at making enemies?  I saw him crawling around last night – poor thing was shot through the shoulder!  He's fortunately recovering nicely; I suppose the wound wasn't really as bad as it looked.  All the same, I thought it would be best if he stayed here until the tournament.  After all, I'm not planning on going easy on your little Goku."  She smiles coquettishly, slowly walking up to him.  She places one index finger on his chest, directly below the dip in his collarbone.  "No," she whispers, "I want this fight to be…"  She tilts her head, looking up at him through her eyelashes.  "…breathtaking."

Yamcha simply stares at her, his eyes bulging.  He's absolutely frozen.  _God.  Holy shit.  Dear God.  Fuck.  Shit.  My God.  Shit.  Sweet Jesus.  Shit._

Bulma fights the urge to giggle.  _I never knew this could feel so good!  I really hope you're watching this, Vegeta!  Look!  Observe the almighty power I have over a man!  I hope you realize that I could do this to you!  Now that's something to think about: Vegeta completely at my mercy.  All the same, I can't really imagine Vegeta "at my mercy."  If I were to do something like this to him, he'd probably…  She cuts herself off as she feels blood rushing to her cheeks and…other, less innocent parts of her body.  __Don't even start thinking like that, Bulma.  This is about Yamcha, not Vegeta.  She pulls herself away from her fiancé, acting as if nothing unusual has happened._

"Is there some reason why you wanted to see me, Yamcha?"

He breaks himself out of a lusty stupor.  "Uhh…"  _Yes, I was going to tell you that your little pet fighter had suddenly perished…I guess I'll have to save that message for later.  "I just wanted to see your beautiful face, baby!  After all those fighters, it's hard to remember that life isn't really that ugly."  He smiles, but sends a rather pointed look at the man leaning against a wall.  "I'm really sorry about last night, and I thought maybe I could make it up to you by taking you to that art show you wanted to see."_

"Oh, Yamcha, of course!  That would be wonderful!  I'll go get dressed."

"Wear something that would also look nice for lunch, darling."  _And maybe this time I won't get interrupted before…dessert._

"You are such a sweetheart!"

Despite her cheerful façade, Bulma suddenly feels a little empty inside.  She notices that Vegeta has left the room, although she didn't hear him leave.  She pushes any strange doubts aside, and concentrates on the pleasant results of her little game.  _Yamcha forgot about Vegeta without a fight, and both of them still know who's in charge!  This is perfect!  So why do I feel like something's wrong?_

Yamcha smirks.  _So, it isn't over yet, is it?  I can't believe the little bastard managed to escape that explosion.  It took out three of my men, but the target just got a small bullet wound.  He's pretty good, I'll give him that.  Still, I'll win in the end.  I won this little battle, and I will definitely win the war.  Bulma's mine, whether she knows it or not, and she'll learn to be less dominating.  It's only a matter of time._

In a guest room down the hall, Vegeta sits on his bed, folding his legs underneath himself.  _I wonder if he realizes how strong-minded she is.  It's odd that they're engaged, given that he seems like the type who would put more weight in tits than brains…not that she doesn't have a nice figure.  She just has a lot more spark than I would have expected.  I never would have thought she'd be able to work him over like that.  I suppose she doesn't know who he really is or what could happen to her if she makes him angry.  He falls back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.  __Not that I care._

*****

"Shall I call a cab for you, Miss Briefs?"

"No, thank you," she says without betraying any emotion.  "I can walk home."

"Perhaps Master Yamcha can drive you home.  I'm quite certain that he would…"

"No.  I don't want to be more of a burden to him than I already am," she replies, bitterness sharpening her voice.

"Please, Miss Briefs," the short manservant practically begs.  "At least tell Master Yamcha that you're leaving!"

"I wouldn't want to interrupt his 'important meeting.'  Tell him I'll see him whenever he has a few minutes to _talk with his fiancée!"  She stops, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself.  __It isn't like Krillen's done anything wrong.  I have no right to yell at him because of something his master has done.  For that matter, this isn't really Yamcha's fault.  Still…  She sighs.  "If he wants to see me, tell him I'll be in Hyde Park for the rest of the afternoon."_

Krillen shakes his head in surrender.  "As you wish, ma'am."

She tastes Chicago in the air outside as she sets out for the park.  She runs her tongue across her teeth as she thinks about her "date" with Yamcha.

_The art show was wonderful, as always, although Yamcha was somewhat less than enthralled.  He always just tags along, studying my body more than the paintings and sculpture.  Usually, I don't care, but today it bothered me.  I felt as if he were parading me like a show horse.  She grimaces at the recollection.  __Well, Bulma, you **did bring that on yourself with that little number this morning, didn't you?  She sighs, silently cursing herself as she picks her way through the grime on the sidewalk, carefully holding her violet dress clear of puddles.**_

_Lunch was nice, too.  He took her to an expensive restaurant, where he talked to her about their honeymoon over a light soup and neat sandwich.  __He wants to take me to ****__New York__.  She weighs it in her mind now.  At lunch, it seemed like a marvelously modern idea, but now she feels less than satisfied.  While New York __is a better center for the arts than Chicago, it isn't terribly different.  She has already been there several times with her father.  It would be much more interesting, for example, to see Paris.  __At the same time, Yamcha is so terrible with foreign languages…perhaps it would be better to just go by myself some day.  She smiles wryly.  __Yes, that sounds like the perfect honeymoon -- going to __Paris__ by myself._

He drove her to his posh apartment after lunch, claiming that he had forgotten the brochures he wanted her to see.  She prayed that he really did want to talk, but..._I worried that he had something else in mind.  Her suspicion was confirmed when he effectively stopped all verbal forms of communication.  __Why does kissing Yamcha always have to be so...brutal?  And why can't he ever **just kiss me?  For better or for worse, his impassioned assault had, with much foul language on his part, ended abruptly when Krillen knocked on the door.**_

Bulma doesn't notice the strange looks from passersby as she continues walking, unaware that her facial expression keeps changing as she thinks.  She chews her lower lip, confused and discomfited.  She, too, should have felt upset when the announcement of a meeting interrupted Yamcha, but she didn't.  Her anger and frustration were actually aimed both at Yamcha for touching her and at herself for not enjoying it.  She just can't forget what ChiChi told her months ago, when she first began dating Yamcha.

_"Just remember, Miss Bulma, that you must behave like a lady.  Don't let him do anything dirty, do you understand me?"_

_"ChiChi, these aren't the middle ages.  I don't have to worry about saving my chastity.  Women today are free to do with their bodies what they wish!"_

_"That may be, miss, but if you let **that man touch you, you'll be nothing but his...whore.  I don't want to see that happen to you!"**_

_She has always had such a low estimation of him, Bulma muses.  __I wonder if she realizes how much that has affected me.  Since that day, she has never been able to let Yamcha touch her.  The few times they haven't been interrupted, she has escaped by feigning illness.  It actually isn't much of a lie – making out with Yamcha just feels __wrong.  She hears ChiChi's voice repeating that ugly word: __whore.  Bulma really isn't that stuffy; she can imagine being intimate with a man.  Her problem is just...Yamcha.  She simply __can't enjoy his caresses.  She has tried, but she always ends up nauseous._

_I really hope a wedding ring can cure this._

*****

As the meeting with his "associates" draws to a close, Yamcha pulls aside an old friend.

"Say, Yaj, I'm having a bit of a rodent problem, and I was wondering if you could help me."

"What's in it for me?"  Yajirobe has never been a fan of circumlocution.

Yamcha laughs.  "No, Yaj, it's not that big of a problem.  I just need a little advice."

Yajirobe just looks him in the eye, unfazed.  "Lunch at my favorite place."

Yamcha rolls his eyes.  "Sure, whatever you say.  The thing is there's this little bastard who's been ticking me off.  Worst thing is he seems to have more lives than a fucking cat.  You hear about the explosion at the Hôtel Paris?"  In an attempt to sound sophistiqué, he pronounces it "the Hotelle Pair-eese."

"Yeah.  Took out a whole block.  So?"

"Guess who made it out with one little bullet hole?"

Yajirobe shrugs, nonplussed.  "Who'd you send?  Your average thugs are nimrods."

"He's a fucking street fighter!  A pissing drunk should be able to knock him off with a .22!  How the Hell is he still alive?"

"You want Piccolo?  It'll cost ya."

"Fuck off, Yaj, he's still just an asshole.  I'm not shelling out for your top assassin.  I just want a little help, ok?"

"I get lunch?"

"_Yes."_

"Okay, okay, jeez, what's up your ass?  Tail him.  Get a couple of your smarter bastards to follow him.  Find his fucking weakness…a favorite whore, a sick mom, I don't care.  Wound her, he can't run.  He'll have to fight 'fair and square,' meaning he's horse shit.  Have a third guy take him out from behind.  Really, Yamcha, what happened to the great Wolf?  This shouldn't be so fucking hard."

"Easy for you to say – you haven't met the shit," Yamcha grumbles.  Yajirobe shrugs and exits, chomping on a cigar.

Minutes later, Yamcha's talking to two of his favorite henchmen.  Yajirobe's plan is fairly simple, and it doesn't take long for them to understand what they're supposed to do.  They leave quickly and silently, not attracting attention for fear of raising questions about their boss.  They know the punishment for failure.

*****

Engrossed in thought, Bulma doesn't notice the signs for the park.  A breeze picks up, whispering through her dress, _go home, go home, but she ignores it.  The wind becomes stronger: __hurry, hurry, go home!  She continues on.  A deep voice from the blackness above rumbles one last warning to no avail.  Bulma just keeps walking, her body plodding on mechanically, step after step._

A sudden splash from the still-muddy roads finally succeeds in catching her attention.  She stares in disgust at her ruined dress, then looks around for help.  She realizes with a start that she has no idea where she is.

She doesn't let herself panic; after all, she has been walking in a straight line.  All she has to do is retrace her steps.  What makes her predicament frightening is the character of her surroundings.

Bulky, sullen-faced men stare at her, openly eyeing the thin, soaked fabric clinging to her breasts.  With them are women drenched in makeup and cheap perfume.  Glowing red clouds of cigarette smoke float through the air as the rain begins to fall.

Bulma quickly turns around and begins walking briskly towards civilization.

"What's the matter?  Need some 'elp, princess?" a prostitute jeers.

Bulma breaks into a run.


	6. Nightmare part 1

**Chapter 6 – Nightmare – Part 1**

The rain comes down harder and heavier, seeping through the ruined dress, darkening her hair to a rich royal blue.  She shivers.  _Why does rain have to be so **cold**?  _She really isn't much of a runner, and she soon stumbles as her shoes slide on the wet sidewalk.  She catches herself, and in that moment realizes that no one is following her, though frightening men and women still surround her.  _How did I manage to walk so far into this part of town?  Still, no one has actually **tried **anything.  Maybe if I ignore them, I'll be fine.  _She begins walking again, only to be stopped when a hand grabs her wrist.

"I beg your pardon?" she says coolly, hiding her fear as she turns to the well-muscled man.

"How much?"  He grins, exposing several mossy, broken teeth.

She stares at him, not understanding his question.  Something begins to click, however, when he licks his lips and runs his gaze over her curves.  She glares at him, although her cheeks stay white with cold from the icy rain.  "Unhand me, ass!" she screams.

She catches a glance of her reflection in a window.  Her mascara has run down her face, making her look like a sick clown.  Her hair, her dress…_Oh, God, I **do **look like a whore_**.**

He laughs to his fellows sheltered on the sidelines.  "Look, the little whore thinks she's too good for me!"  The block erupts with laughter.  He turns back to her, his grip tightening on her arm.  "Come on, love, what do you think you are, the mayor's private stash?"

"No, mine."

The laughter dies as the onlookers part to reveal a very familiar scowl.  His hair only gently bends as he steps out into the rain.

The brute quickly releases Bulma's arm when the aristocratic-looking man, dressed simply but neatly, approaches.  "Sorry, sir, I didn't know she was your whore."

Outraged, Bulma draws in a large breath.  "Listen, bastard, I am not…"

"Silence, woman!"

"And as for you, Ve-…"  His name is cut off with a muffled squeak as he grabs her, wrapping an arm around her back and clamping his hand over her mouth.

"You have to listen to me, woman," he hisses in her ear.  "Instead of panicking or getting angry, think for a moment.  Think about where you are.  Think about what the press would say if they learned that Bulma Briefs, heir to Capsule Corporation, was parading around in the red light district alone, dressed like _that_!"  He gestures at her dress with his free hand.  Her eyes widen as she realizes that he's right.  She nods almost imperceptibly, and he removes his hand, brushing his fingers across her lips.  She resists the urge to push her face back into his palm; the warmth was so nice in the cold rain.  _Of course_, her brain reasons with her, _he didn't mean it as any sort of caress, so it's best not to treat it as one.  Remember, he's still a pompous…whatever he is._

He keeps his arm around her, ostensibly staying "in character" as a man leading a whore to his apartment.  In reality, he is startled by how cold she is.  Her lips burned, but it was the burn of ice on his skin.  She is long past shivering.  He pulls her closer, trying to keep her warm as they walk through the rain.  He wants to give her his coat, but they are still being watched, and that might look too caring.  Part of him mentally kicks himself, knowing that he _shouldn't _care, damn it!  He ignores this voice, however.  He doesn't have time for deep soul searching.  The woman will be severely ill if she doesn't get warm and dry soon.  She's getting tired, too.  She has walked a long way from home, but they can't take a taxi in this state.  _Shit, woman, why couldn't you have gone to the park as you had planned?_  He decides that talking may keep her feet moving as well as her mouth.

"So, idiot, just how long were you planning to stay out in the rain?"

"What did you expect me to do, walk up to those…people and ask them for a cup of hot tea?  I had everything under control.  I didn't need you or your repugnant alibi!"

"Keep your voice _down_!  And what exactly _did _you plan on doing?"  _Shit, her lips are nearly as blue as her hair._

"Something!  I was working on it, OK?"  _Why do my legs feel so heavy?_

They walk in silence until Bulma decides to give voice to a couple of questions.

"Vegeta?  Why did you…help me?"  As she expected, he doesn't say a word.  He doesn't ignore her question, however; she feels a strange tension build around him.  She decides that, given what he's done for her tonight (_When did the sun set?  Just how long **have **I been walking?_), she can release him from this particular question.  She asks him her second question, this time attempting to sound completely businesslike.

"Do you believe that if a woman sleeps with a man when they aren't married, she becomes his whore?"  She almost laughs at her own tone; it reminds her of her math teacher from third grade.

He blinks a few times, then looks at her sideways.  "That depends."

Silence.

"On _what_?" she finally asks.

"On the man and woman in question.  On their situation.  On many things, woman!"

"For example…?"

"For example, if you were to sleep with me tonight, then yes, you would become my whore."  _Or vice versa_, he mentally adds.

"I would _never _sleep with you!" she sputters, her cheeks actually turning slightly pink despite the cold.

He rolls his eyes.  "I never said you would!  It was an example!"

"Not a very realistic one," she grumbles.

"Fine!  As a completely different, more 'realistic' example, take your relationship with that idiot."

Her movements instantly become quiet.  "Go on," she whispers.

"You will be married soon, correct?"

"Yes, in August."

"That's not really _soon_."

"It's this year!  It's only a few months away!"

"Right."  He actually rolls his eyes again.  _You'd almost think he was teasing me_, she muses.

"Well," he continues, "whether you sleep with him now or after you are 'legal' makes no difference."

"You mean, since we're _going _to be married, it's almost like we _are _married?"

"No."

She squints at him through the few raindrops which separate their faces.  "Then what _do _you mean?"

He wants to scream at her to stop this annoying interrogation, but they have almost reached a small bar where he can call her chauffeur without making waves.  He just has to keep her happy for two more minutes, three at the most.  He opens his mouth to reply.

_Well, well, well, look what we have here: a fighter and his whore, all alone.  Took long enough for this street to clear!  Good thing I'm a patient man._  The hit man smirks as he raises his gun, clicking off the safety catch.

The rain muffles the tiny sound, but Vegeta has trained his ears for certain dangers.  Whatever he was going to say escapes his mind as his fighting instincts take over.  He pulls a startled Bulma to him, drawing a 9 mm pistol from his coat in the same motion.  Practically throwing the woman behind him, he jams the loose magazine in place.

_Shit_, the hit man thinks as he watches is target fly into action.  _This guy's a pro!  _He quickly fires, but the considerable smoke kicked up by the .45 clouds his vision, and he can't see if he's hit either the target or the whore.

He never does learn his accuracy…or inaccuracy.  He never sees the twin bullets that burn through his heart.

Vegeta smirks, turning when the Bulma suddenly screams.  "Honestly, woman, you wait until now to be fri-…"  He follows her terrified gaze to his left, then shoves her back against the curb of the road when he sees the flash of a Tommy gun.  _How many of them are there?  _He curses himself for getting so wrapped up in the woman.  He should have known they were being followed – he should have _felt it!_

Fortunately, the Tommy is not very accurate, and the rain confuses their pursuers.  Vegeta crouches next to Bulma, partially protected by the curb.  He grits his teeth when a bullet tears through his shoe, but remains focused on the pattern of fire.  He finally aims and shoots off three bullets in rapid succession.

Bulma stares at the man beside her.  _He just killed a man! _ The Tommy gun goes silent, and she hears a sickening moan, followed by a wet thud.  Her nausea comes back tenfold.  _Make that two men.  Just who…or **what…is he?  And why are they trying to kill us?**_   She wants to burst into tears.  She doesn't even feel cold anymore…just numb.  She's nearly prostrate in a pool of filthy water, surrounded by the sounds of rainfall and gun fire.  She yelps as a bullet barely grazes her shoulder.  The smell of her own burnt flesh causes her stomach to contract, but still she holds back those tears.  She will _not_ cry.  _I can't let him think I'm weak._  Some distant part of her mind tries to tell her that it doesn't matter anymore, that he obviously _knows_ that she's weak in comparison to him, at least in this situation, but she ignores it.  She watches the blurry world around her, trying to tell herself that she's having a nightmare.  She's so exhausted that her self-delusion works and she watches a third attacker emerge and be destroyed with disinterested eyes.  She even smiles lopsidedly at Vegeta when the noise finally stops.

He stares at the smiling woman.  She doesn't seem real, somehow.  She looks right through him, as though she belongs to a world he can't see.  "Woman?"

"I was right.  It was all just a dream," she whispers in as her eyes roll back.


	7. Nightmare part 2

**Chapter 6 – Nightmare – Part 2**

 "But _please, Papa!" the little girl begs, staring up at her father with enormous, glossy eyes._

The mustached man chuckles as he ruffles her brightly colored hair.  "No, sweetheart.  How about a cute little kitten?"

"No!" she cries, stomping her foot in aggravation, her charm dismissed in favor of fury.  "I want a tiger!"

"Bulma, darling," he says soothingly, trying to reason with the temperamental five-year-old, "tigers don't make good pets.  I know he looks cute now, but when he grows up he'll turn mean and you'll have to get rid of him!  That isn't very nice, is it?  He'll be much happier in a zoo."

"No he won't!  He won't turn on me!  He won't be happier locked up in a cage!  I'll look after him and take care of him and love him, and I'll love him _so much that he'll __have to love me back, and he'll protect me!  He'll love me so much he'd __never hurt me, he'll never even __think of hurting me, and he'll fight for me, he'll kill anybody who tries to hurt me…"_

Dr. Briefs tries to speak as Bulma finally stops to breathe, but she quickly continues on.  "He'll love me – _me_, and nobody else!  I'll be the only one in the whole world he cares about, and I'll love him for ever and ever!"

_Bingo.  "If he loves you and no one else, though, what will keep him from attacking me or Mommy?"_

Her face falls.  "I guess you're right, Papa."

Her father fades away as she stares through the glass at the tiger cub.  "I'm sorry," she whispers, as blue eyes meet tawny yellow.  "We could have been such great friends."  The cub yawns, baring his teeth.  She continues to watch, fascinated.  She chants her favorite poem, the words capturing her like a spell.

_Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright_

_In the forests of the night,_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

Everything disappears save the girl and the tiger.

_In what distant deeps or skies_

_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_

_On what wings dare he aspire?_

_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

His yellow eyes twist and darken, becoming coal black, but never shedding their cold intensity.

_And what shoulder, and what art,_

_Could twist the sinews of thy heart?_

_And when thy heart began to beat,_

_What dread hand forged thy dread feet?_

His face and body morph into human form as they watch each other with unblinking eyes.

_What the hammer? what the chain?_

_In what furnace was thy brain?_

_What the anvil? what dread grasp_

_Dare its deadly terrors clasp?_

She has long since stopped speaking, but the words drone on.  _Blake was writing about Satan, some part of her remembers.  _

_When the stars threw down their spears,_

_And watered heaven with their tears,_

_Did he smile his work to see?_

_Did he who made the Lamb make thee?[*][1]_

Lucifer: the fallen angel.

He slowly steps forward – or is it she who moves closer?  She can't tell.  She can't really see anything.  All she knows is that she's still staring into darkness.  She feels, rather than sees, his hand reach out and touch her cheek.  "Who are you?" she murmurs as she finally closes her eyes.

*****

Vegeta looks down at the sleeping woman.  His expression is blank as he touches her cheek with his bare hand.  Her skin is still warm and dry with fever.  She mumbles something, and he jerks his hand away.

 _Stupid woman, he grumbles silently.  _Couldn't you have told someone to fix the training room before running off to that idiot?_  Not that he could really train with his injured foot, but he could at least have supervised the renovations.  Instead, he's stuck here, watching a woman toss and turn with fevered dreams.  The washcloth on her forehead has gotten warm, but the maid will be back any moment to attend to that._

As if on cue, ChiChi bustles through the door, swatting Vegeta aside as she turns to Bulma.  Vegeta quietly sits down on the chair he has pulled close to the woman's bed.  He watches the maid work with a fixed expression of faint boredom, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes vacant.

He wonders briefly why the maid hasn't bothered to scold him.  When he carried Bulma out of her chauffeured car last night, ChiChi simply took one look at the soaked, unconscious woman and nodded him inside.  She'd already called a doctor, and she even had the man look at Vegeta's foot when he was finished with Bulma.  All this she did without a single question.  To this moment, she still hasn't asked about what happened.  He gets the feeling that this is about to change as ChiChi opens her mouth to speak.

"I take it you were _both attacked."_

He grunts.

"Was it…was it Yamcha?"

"Perhaps."  He doesn't like all of these questions.

"Have you said or done anything to make him think that Bulma is being unfaithful?" she demands.

"**What?**" _Where is **this coming from?**_  To his total shock, ChiChi looks like she's ready to scream or cry.  She does both.

"He'll kill her!  God knows he cares for her in his own way, but he's so jealous!  What if he already suspects something?  What if this was his revenge?" she shouts, tears spouting from her eyes.

"Damn it, girl, shut up!  You're giving the statues headaches!"  He sighs.  "You don't have to worry."  He remembers what he heard through the apartment walls.  "If he was behind the attack, it was aimed solely at me.  The woman didn't look like herself.  They probably thought she was disposable."

ChiChi shudders at the disinterested tone he gives the word..._disposable_...but he has succeeded in quieting her fears as well as her voice.  She doesn't trust him, but she can't think of a reason why he would lie.  She shakes herself, then decides to ignore him and concentrate on her employer.  He, on the other hand, has already blocked the maid out completely, lost in the memory of that day.

He tailed them all morning, following them through the art exhibit without difficulty.  He admired the woman's taste in art, but watched in disgust as the foolish man salivated over her figure.  _His job, unfortunately, was to watch his enemy, as he kept reminding himself.  He wondered occasionally what he was doing.  It wasn't as if Yamcha would tell Bulma about his real "job."  Thinking about it at one point, he allowed himself a small smirk at the picture:_

_"Hi, honey, I'm home!"_

_"Hello, Yamcha!  How was work today?"_

_"Oh, same-old, same-old.  Threatened a few widowers and pensioners, blew up a grocery store, and rigged a dog fight."_

_"That's nice, dear.  Wash your hands before you come to supper."_

Lunch was an incredibly boring matter, with the idiot blabbering on about New York, and the woman drinking it all in as if he had bought her Paradise.  Nothing could have prepared him for the scene in the fiend's apartment, however.  _Having to listen through the wall as they…_

He shakes himself, forcing his mind back into the present.  He watches ChiChi rub Bulma's feet, trying to bring the fever down.  He _won't_ let himself think about what he heard.  The worst part of it all is the strange, alien feeling that claws at his stomach at even the idea of the woman with that slime.  _He's no worse than you are, though, his subconscious tells him.  __Not that it matters.  Nothing matters but revenge.  I can't let this blind me.  I shouldn't be here, damn it all!_

An hour later, ChiChi turns to him, and is surprised to see that he is still awake.  _He's just been sitting here all this time?_

"I have nothing better to do, thanks to your idiot of an employer," he says, reading either her mind or her face.  She can't tell which idea is more unnerving.

She twiddles her thumbs as she looks at the clock.  "Well, if you really _don't have anything else to do…"  She stops.  _Is this a good idea?  She's completely helpless!  Do I really want to leave her alone with this man?  But I really need to see Goku.  What am I saying?  I've never even talked to him!  How can I be sure that he can help us?  He does work for Yamcha…but he seems so nice…perhaps it's worth the risk.__

"Well, girl, are you going to finish your sentence before I _do_ find something else to occupy my time?"

She still hesitates.  _Am I doing this for her…or because I want to meet Goku?_  She looks down at Bulma.  _For her._

"I need to go see someone.  I'll be back soon, but I can't leave Miss Bulma alone.  Will you stay with her until I return?"

He gives her a penetrating look.  "You trust me with her?"

She stares straight back – she isn't so weak that she can be defeated with a simple glare!  "I have no choice.  If you lay one finger on her, I swear that you'll regret it for the rest of your life!  And you can trust me when I say that 'the rest of your life' won't be a very long time!"

He doesn't even blink.  "I wasn't planning on touching her.  Believe it or not, I do not consider pneumonia a turn-on!"

ChiChi just huffs as she walks to the door, taking one last look before she leaves for the speakeasy.

Vegeta doesn't move.  As the stars fly past, invisible to the people in the city, he stares at Bulma.  Clocks cycle in the silence for three long hours before the woman suddenly sits up in bed, staring at him with blind eyes.

"He'd _never_ hurt me," she murmurs.  "He'll never even think of hurting me, and he'll fight for me…"  She finishes with innocent certainty, then closes her eyes and falls back onto the bed.

Vegeta doesn't trust himself to reply, even while Bulma is asleep.  He knows what his answer should be, but he has a haunting suspicion that his life has become much more complicated than "should" and "must."

"Damn you, woman," he mutters as he continues to watch her sleeping form.

  


* * *

[*][2] Blake, William. "The Tyger."

   [1]: #_edn1
   [2]: #_ednref1



	8. Midnight Snack

**Chapter 7 – Midnight Snack**

Yamcha leaves his mouth uncovered as he yawns, cigar dangling from one hand, green glass bottle beating a tattoo of boredom against his chair.  His eyes glaze as he watches Goku thrash...someone, he's forgotten who.  Some old punk who thinks he's Mr. Testosterone.  _Boring with a capital B-O-A-R-E-E-N.  I wonder if Bulma's feeling any better...how like the ditz to catch a cold walking outside.  Which reminds me..._

"Ouch!  Jeez, boss, what was that for?"

"For being a stupid ass!  Shit, Krillen, why didn't you drive her home?"

"I asked, and she said 'no!'  What did you want me to do, hit her over the head and dump her in the car?  I thought I was supposed to be 'one of those polished, refined tux-and-white-gloves servant guys.'  You know, what the rest of the world calls a butler?"

"Krillen..."

"Hey, hey, cool it, boss man.  She'll be alright.  Women are always acting sick when they want to be alone.  She's probably..._you know...having her female icky-blood-thing."_

Yamcha drums his fingers against the bottle.  "Ya think so?"

"And Hercule's down!  Goku wins again!" the announcer screams, drowning out Krillen's reply.  _Hercule.  That's right.  Oh well, time to collect my cash._

The small figure in a hooded coat watches Yamcha roll off his chair, the shiny round head of his right-hand man trailing behind as he heads for the announcer.  No one notices the petite woman in the cheering crowd.

She turns away from The Wolf.  Much as she'd like to tail him for a while – to find out whether or not he knows the truth behind her mistress's illness – she doesn't have time.  She draws the inside of her lip between her teeth as she tries to find Goku in the mob.

But the fighter is gone.

*****

ChiChi pulls her hair free of the cloak, enjoying her brief respite from those damn hairpins.  There's no need to hide anymore; over an hour after the fight, the speakeasy is quiet...desolate, even.  _Funny how alone you feel when surrounded by tired drunks.  Being the only sober one makes you feel so...empty.  I should feel virtuous.  Instead, I feel like I've missed the punch line of the world's greatest joke._

"You look pretty blue."

She snorts without looking away from her glass of water.  "If that's supposed to be a come-on..."

"A what?  I was just thinking that you look like you could use some food.  The fish-n-chips is pretty good here, you know.  It's my favorite!  It always seems to cheer me up right away."

_Great.  Miss Bulma's sick – probably dying – and I've left her alone with some sadistic bandit.  I can't find Goku; I'm tired; I'm surrounded by riffraff; and now, to make my life just PEACHY, some garrulous drunk thinks I look "pretty blue" and "could use some food."  GOD!  WHY DO YOU HATE ME?_

"Umm...Miss?  Are you OK?"

"ISN'T THAT **OBVIOUS?"**

"Do you...umm...want to talk about it?  And...Mr. Barman?  Sir?  Could you get us a plate of fish-n-chips?  Actually, two plates...no, make that five.  Oh, and a couple of orders of wings?  Thanks, Mr. Barman, sir!"

She sniffles slightly, her mouth wriggling with unreleased words and emotions.  The sound of a heavy plate being set in front of her pulls some invisible trigger and she explodes.

"She's **dying!"**

"Wait, who's dying?"

"They're going to **kill ****her!"**

"Who?  Kill **who**?"

"AND I CAN'T FIND GOKU **ANYWHERE**!  DAMNITDAMNIT**DAMNIT!"  She finally bursts into hot, exasperated tears.**

"Oh.  Well, I don't know about the other stuff, but I can help you with the last bit, at least."

"How?" she chokes out, eyes suddenly hopeful, as she turns to look at him.  Her face goes slack as she stares.  Finally, her lips contract into a silent "oh."

She turns back to the food and dives in.

*****

_Ugh.  I feel like **shit**._

_I wonder what that means, exactly.  Do I feel the way shit would feel if shit were sentient and could feel...pain?  Or do I feel as terrible as shit would feel if shit were sentient and had to live with the knowledge that it **was** shit?  Or do I feel so terrible that my body is as valuable as shit?  Or do I feel like the excretion of some other animal?  And why **bull** shit?  What's so special about bulls?  What about cows?  Or sheep?  Sheep shit.  That's what this internal monologue is: sheep shit.  Or maybe goat shit.  I feel like I've eaten a few too many tin cans._

_Maybe I should open my eyes._

A streak of light jars her head as her eyes cross.

_On second thought..._

"So, have you **finally decided to get up?"**

_Vegeta.  I'm dreaming about Vegeta.  "Lovely," she smiles as she twists her legs amid the sheets and rolls over._

"God damn it, woman, get your lazy butt out of bed and tell these morons to fix your antiquated gymnasium!"

**_My__ butt and _****my bed.  This might turn into a very nice dream, if only my head didn't hurt so much.**

"Of course, dear," she coos as she buries her face into a pillow, hiding from the light.  "Anything you say."

Her forehead wrinkles as her brain tries to yell something over the din of hot, scratchy pain.  _I feel almost like I'm awake...but what's **Vegeta doing here?  It must be some sort of dream; I think I've been having some really weird ones tonight.  Today.  What time is it?**_

"**WOMAN!"**

Something which feels and sounds suspiciously like a rabid guinea pig tries to leap out of her throat.  She swings around wildly, connecting with something warm and solid as she rolls over to kill the Thing Which Made a Startling Sound from Somewhere Close to a Sleeping Princess.  Heiress.  Same idea.  _Come to think of it, that sounded a little like Vegeta.  But I feel like shit.  He shouldn't have yelled at me.  It simply IS NOT DONE.  And I really, **really feel like shit.**_

"Woman," he barks out again, this time without as much force.  He grumbles low in his throat as he tries to look at her.  She's managed to push him over on his side, and has him partially pinned against the edge of her bed.  Leaning over her to wake her up probably wasn't the best plan of attack, but he's never been patient with women.  _That didn't sound right.  I can be **quite patient with...I really need to get off of her bed, preferably without falling down or leaning on that bad foot.**_

"Could you possibly remove your arm from my throat?  Honestly, for a woman with your lack of muscle, you have unbearably heavy arms."

"Thanks for the reveille, Vegeta.  I'm ever so obliged.  I do hope I'm not choking you.  It's just that, well, **you understand...with my 'lack of muscle,' I simply can't move my 'unbearably heavy...'"**

"Spare yourself the trouble of talking, then."  He rolls slightly to one side, sliding out from under her arm and catching his weight on his good foot.  She groans as she pulls herself up to a sitting position, massaging the bridge of her nose as she squints at him.  He stares back, face unreadable.

"You look like shit."

She bursts out laughing, and then groans, moving her hands to her temples.  "Aren't you pleasant this morning?  Really, Vegeta, darling, I can't take all this praise without it going to my head!"

He grunts as he drops into a chair near her bed.  "My only goal in life is to describe your beauty accurately."

"I hope that's not the only reason why you're in my bedroom."

He doesn't answer her; _then again, I didn't really ask a question_.  She slowly turns her head, trying to spot...

"She's not here."

"Oh."  _That's...strange.  Very strange.  It's not like I don't know she has a life outside of her job, but...well...it's strange._

She turns back to Vegeta, and slowly becomes aware of the crutches abandoned behind his chair and the bandage on his foot.  She finally meets his gaze.

"What happened?"

"I was shot."

Her eyes narrow.  _Shot?  Then we really did...no, that's impossible.  "When?"_

"Last night."

She darts her eyes to the window and back.  "You mean..."

"Approximately 28 hours ago."  Before she can twist around to see find a clock, he adds, "It's just past two in the morning."

_One day and four hours ago, her brain bubbles, happy to be safe in the world of numbers.  She's always been good with numbers.  Numbers are so...regular.  Two and two are **always four, no matter what.  Although her mother has been known to say that one plus one will equal three, if you aren't careful.  It's the sort of thing you really don't want your mother to say at dinner parties, but...there you are.  **__Vegeta was shot at ten at night._

_And it was raining._

He nods once, satisfied with the slight widening of her eyes.  By the time she refocuses, he's already opening the door.  _Pooh.  I missed my one chance to see the great Vegeta limp.  So that's it?  He's leaving?  Of course he's leaving.  I can't imagine what he was doing here in the first place.  My God...assuming there's one left who'll listen to me...where could ChiChi be in the middle of the night?  Did something happen to her?  How did I get here?  And I've been sleeping for 28 hours straight?  What's going on?_  She pushes aside the added pang of what is **not disappointment at Vegeta's departure.**

"You there!  Servant boy!"

_Of course, Vegeta can't leave without being an arrogant jerk.  It isn't enough that he never says "goodbye."_

"Yeah?"

Silence.

"I mean, yes, sir?" the poor boy chokes out.

"Pasta and steak – or lamb, whichever is fresher.  The woman will have a bowl of light broth, some soup crackers, and cranberry juice."

"I'm not hungry!"

"Shut up," he yells without turning away from the boy.

"And I hate cranberry juice!"

"Just bring it before I get impatient, understand?"

"Umm..."  Bulma can't really see him – she has a blurry view of the back of Vegeta's shoulders – but she can hear him fidget with his collar.  "I don't think the chef is awake."  _That's right; Jim's only awake because he's probably been "busy" with the cook's daughter.  I seem to remember ChiChi telling me something of that sort..._

"Then you will...?"

"Wake him up?"

"Smart boy."

*****

"...So, you see, I'm worried that this fighter has gotten Miss Bulma into terrible trouble!  She's a good girl, really, and I don't think she's done anything wrong, but she can be awfully naïve."  ChiChi pushes the remaining food around her plate; it's tasty, but very heavy, and worry constricts her throat.  Goku, of course, has already finished the rest of the fish.

"And you think Yamcha was responsible for the attack?  I don't know...it doesn't really seem like him to get that angry.  Besides, where would he find such ruthless hit men?" he mumbles around a wing.

She turns to him for the second time that evening, finally forgetting her embarrassment.  "I don't really think it was Yamcha – I don't feel like he'd toss Miss Bulma aside that easily.  Plus, the fighter seemed to think there'd be someone else willing to kill him.  Regardless of whether or not Yamcha hired those men, I'm worried that this brutish street thug going to get Bulma involved in something much worse than a lovers' quarrel.  As for your last comment, though, I can't see how The Wolf would have trouble finding a couple of assassins."

"The Wolf?"  His face is open, honest, sweet, and bewildered.

She raises her eyebrows.  "Don't tell me you didn't know Yamcha was a mob boss."

"What?"

"A crime lord, a gangster, someone who has made a career out of threatening people!"

"Oh, that!" he laughs, patting her on the top of her head.  "I wouldn't worry too much about that.  Yamcha may act pretty tough, but I don't think he's that dangerous.  People get scared off 'cause he looks wild, so he usually doesn't have to use any force.  Personally, I kind of like the guy."  His childlike face hardens for a moment.  "He took me in when I didn't have anywhere to go.  I had no memory of where I was going or even who I was, but he gave me a name and a job, an **honest job.  I'll never be able to repay him for that."  He turns to her and grins.  "Maybe he doesn't have the greatest people skills, but the same can be said for a lot of people!"**

She colors a bit at the gentle barb, then sighs and stares at her plate.

"So, Miss...Err...sorry, but I think I've forgotten your name."

"ChiChi.  Don't worry; I don't think I ever told you."

"Right, Miss ChiChi...who else do you think could be after Miss Bulma's fighter?"

She shuts her eyes and chews her lip.  "I don't have a single idea," she finally answers.  "I really don't know the first thing about his past – only that Vegeta is a pompous, arrogant wretch of a..."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Vegeta."  She tilts her head to watch him as his fists tighten and his face contorts, eyes focusing on some point between the bar counter and the back wall.

"Vegeta..." he mutters while she holds her breath.  "Vegeta...Nope!  Sorry, thought it rang a bell for a bit, but I've never heard of him!"  She almost falls off the stool at his sudden change in attitude, staring at the grinning, sheepish man.  She can't help but smile back.  _He's really an innocent.  It's amazing that he's stayed so gentle and carefree in this dreadful underworld._

She laughs at herself under her breath, and then slowly gets up.  "Thanks for the food and the sympathetic ear, Mr. ..."

"Just 'Goku,' ok?"

"Right."  She smiles again.  "Well, I'm sorry for troubling you about all of this.  I don't know what I thought you could do, but it was nice just to talk to someone."

"You're leaving?"

"I should never have left Miss Bulma alone like that.  I really must get back home."

"Oh."  He inhales, as though about to speak, but then just sighs.

"What is it?" she finally asks.

"I don't know; I just don't like this whole situation.  There must be **something** I can do.  Maybe I should talk to this Vegeta guy.  I left before Miss Bulma issued her challenge, so I still haven't even seen him.  Maybe I **do** know something about him."

"You shouldn't trouble yourself with it, really," she forces out.  _Oh please help us!  **Please!**_

"I insist," he nods.  "Even if I don't know anything about him, I may be able to get him to talk to me.  One way or the other, I can't let you or Miss Bulma get hurt, especially not because of some fight you aren't involved in."

"Oh...well, thank you, then, I guess," she stutters, nervously twisting her hair, trying to hide her blush.  _He 'can't let me get hurt!'  Happyhappyhappyhappy...FOCUS, ChiChi!_

"We should probably be going, then," he says, nodding to the barman.

"Right, we'll just...wait, isn't it a bit late for you to be talking to Vegeta?  After all, it's TWO IN THE MORNING!  SHIT!!!"

He blinks at the language, staring as she grabs her coat and nearly knocks the empty plates on the floor.  "Actually, I was just going to walk you home.  It isn't really safe for you to walk alone this late at night, Miss ChiChi."

"Oh."  She blushes again as she moves to the door.  "Thanks," she repeats.  "And Goku?"

"Yes?"

"Just 'ChiChi,' ok?"

*****

**Note to Readers**

It's back!!!!!!

For old readers, I've reformatted since my last update in...Sep...tem...ber.  So now it should all be easier to read, right?  I deleted old shout-outs, as I felt like they added clutter.  I'll continue writing thank-you-notes for reviews to new chapters, but I think I'll email them from now on, unless you ask a question or don't leave your email address.

For new readers, hello all!  I tend to write a chapter a week, on average, so I hope you're patient. U.U  Sowwie!  Since you are the fantastic few who just finished reading 7 full chapters, you are best set to help me...  This was my first update in many moons, so I had to go back & reread my own work, just to figure out where I was (oops)!  If you noticed any discontinuities, **please** let me know, ok?  Thanks!

Until next week!  Love,

            TigerQueen


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